


Within Which Rift

by AHaresBreath



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Art, Bit Gory, But Sweet, Dubious Consent, Emo Arthur, M/M, Pre-fluff, Sculpture, Tree Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:16:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AHaresBreath/pseuds/AHaresBreath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Art is suffering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Within Which Rift

Arthur took off the heavy duty gloves and stroked his rough fingers over the weathered surface of the piece of wood.

It was a rare treasure, the ancient yew tree from the parish church, which had been felled in a storm, the most fearsome storm ever seen in these parts. Like to Noah's flood some had said, like the end of days itself said others.

Knowing of Arthur's fancy for carving the old vicar had offered him the trunk of the blasted tree before it was cleared away. Easily seven foot tall and the full stretch of Arthur's embracing arms around, it was a beautiful piece of wood.

Arthur laid out his tools and sat to ponder on his latest work. He was ashamed, afraid to blemish such a work of nature, perfect surely already? Unneeding of the attentions of such an amateur, a Sunday sculptor whiling away the slow hours til death with his hobbies, making faces that couldn't speak and bodies that couldn't hold him to fill the drafty halls of his crumbling estate.

He took up his mallet and a wide gouge and struck, he attacked the aged flesh with cold steel and whispered his apologies, breathed in the sharp stench as the charred surface gave way to the hidden meat beneath.

The sun set, rose again and still Arthur worked, he sipped acrid wine when he was thirsty and pissed when the need took him but no food passed his lips, his sweaty fringe crusted to his wrinkled forehead and his eyes stained red from the strain. His shoulder grew painful and then numb and then painful again and his hands shook, the cords in his neck strung tight as catgut, but still he worked, digging his way in, stripping back the layers, year by year, grain by grain. He heard cries of terror, of agony, he saw the lines twist, unnatural shapes, contorted limbs and still he delved, switching to smaller chisels and forcing out the detail. His throat was dry, his head pounded with the fog of memory and a fever dream of fire and hurt, and long loneliness, and his fingers came away wet with thick, sticky sap when he caressed those parts that seemed best, most true. He had to find the truth inside the tree. He found ribs, he found bony feet, he found full lips opened in an echoing scream. He kissed those lips and tasted metallic heat, he pressed his ear to the writhing chest and heard a far off flutter of birds wings. And still he cut, and filed, and shaped each feature to perfection. Until he slit open his creation's eyelids and saw bloody tears released from lapis blue eyes.

Then Arthur wept too, and staggered back, and his perfect wooden man stretched, and cracked his stiffened limbs and stepped unsteadily from his plinth, lurching towards Arthur, trailing blood, crunching the remains of his own broken shell underfoot. And when Arthur fell to the floor his creature followed, and taking Arthur's legs he tore loose his trousers and Arthur looked in terror at the stiff standing prick that he had not carved that way and knew that his statue would take it's revenge. But the strong hands which gripped his thighs were not ungentle, and before his entrance was breached he heard a dry voice, like a log sighing in the flames, a whispered word and when the blunt force entered him his body softened to grant it access, the sap, resin, blood, slicking the way. And when his sculpture was fully planted in him, and he had given himself completely to his work, he heard another whisper, like a breeze through the branches of a sacred grove.

"Arthur."

And he knew, and he understood, and he replied.

"Merlin."

**Author's Note:**

> Can't sleep, this is what happened.
> 
> Title is from The Tempest cos apparently Colin has a thing about getting stuck in trees...


End file.
